


Sun

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild foodsmut, Oral Sex, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:49:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fred and George share an ice cream cone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imera/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.
> 
> A/N: This idea is from the beautiful imera, who I adore ever so much! Why didn’t I think of this? She is wonderful.

Normally, the shop doesn’t close on Saturdays. Weekends are always good for business. Weekends where the blistering heat has broken all the cooling spells, however, aren’t so nice. One of their littler ‘experiments’—a new product meant to impose cold showers on unsuspecting victims—has gone badly awry, and as such, the lower level of the shop is simply uninhabitable. It’s too hot a day to bother trying to fix it, and at this point, the twins can afford a day off anyway. Besides, the ‘closed for mystery business’ sign is sure to garner much interest when they reopen on Monday.

It’s too hot to be outside either. Cooling spells can be cast in small bubbles inside, but in a busy street, it’s harder to not melt away. The twins are both down to shorts and t-shirts: not at all their usual promotional attire. It’s too hot to even think about suits. The line at Florean Fortescue’s is criminally long, but fortunately, a small explosion at the mouth of Knockturn Alley (nothing more than a small, harmless diversion) shortens it considerably. George reaches the front of the line and digs around in his pocket, while Fred orders, “One large strawberry vanilla, please.” George nudges his elbow, and Fred adds, “Drizzled in chocolate.” George smiles.

He holds out the coins to pay for it, and Fred takes the large ice cream, tapping it quickly with his wand to prevent it from melting everywhere already. They move quickly out of the line and back towards their shop, and George leans over to swipe his tongue over the pink-brown mound. Delicious, as usual. They could afford two, really. But scarcity is a habit, and they always had to share when they were young. It wasn’t a bad thing. They should preserve their funds anyway, especially being out of commission for the weekend. Besides, the ice cream itself isn’t the real fun.

The real fun is swiping his tongue over the same area Fred does, tasting his brother in the saccharine mix. They swap turns until they’re back inside their own shop, and then they hurry up the stairs to their apartment above it before the heat can get to them. Fred marches straight to the bedroom—that’s where their largest window is, and it’s where they’ve got most of their spells. The window’s already open, checkered curtains swaying in the breeze, perpendicular to the bed. It side-washes them in gold. George shuts the door behind them, shedding his shirt a step away from the bed. Fred follows, passing the cone to George as he shuffles out of his shorts. They get down to boxers and climb onto the bed, holding the ice cream up high, until they’re nestled in the pillows against the headboard, and George holds it out between them. Fred’s fingers lock back around it, over top of George’s, and their legs intertwine beneath them in a tangle of sweaty, freckled limbs.

“We should just have ice cream for dinner,” George sighs, and then he goes in for a long swipe that meets Fred at the side. Their lips bump into one another, cold and soft, and George presses his tongue sideways to nudge Fred’s.

Fred turns to lick a stray glob of cream off George’s lips, mumbling, “We’ve got a carton in the freezer, I think.”

“What’d we go get a cone for, then?” George laughs. But he knows why. It’s more fun in a cone, when they can attack it from opposites sides, all at once, molding it and sucking it up, bumping into one another and licking each other clean. Fred eats like an animal, and George thinks he’s messy on purpose. Before they know it, the temperature charm is wearing off, and the sticky, pink and white liquid is trickling down the sides of the cone. They both try to lick it away, but naturally some gets on their fingers, and then they’re just licking that. Eventually, George gives up and goes back to lapping at the top, the chocolate already gone. Fred continues to suck at George’s knuckles, making him shift in the bed.

Fred has such a wicked mouth, and when he gets back to the top, he nudges George aside, as though battling for ice cream supremacy. They never really _fight_ , but play wrestling is always fun, and George nuzzles back into him. The ice cream tastes amazing, just like Florean’s always does. But Fred is the real treat, and licking the stray beads of sugar off his lips isn’t helping with the heat, even if the coolness is refreshing. When they get down to the rim of the cone, they both start to nibble at it, and more ice cream trails down, dripping down their wrists and even getting down their arms. George eventually gives up on the cone itself and just swipes his tongue over his twin’s forearm. He can feel Fred shiver beneath him, and George traces a vein with his tongue. The saltiness of Fred’s skin mixed with the sweet flavouring makes George heady.

Fred often does that to him. When George pulls back up, Fred shoves the cone forward, crushing it against George’s chest and covering it in crumbs glued to him by cream. George cringes and gasps at the stinging cold, but he knows it’ll be worth it. A second later, Fred leans forward, ducking to swipe his tongue all over the mess. George throws his head back and moans, arching forward. He threads his fingers into Fred’s hair, and Fred laps at the falling assortment. It slumps down to George’s stomach, and Fred goes with it, murmuring against George’s belly button, “You want some more, baby?”

George mumbles, “Fuck yeah.” And he knows Fred means the ice cream, but George means _Fred_.

Fred lifts back up to him, a chunk of waffle cone held in his teeth. George bites it right out of Fred’s mouth, eating it against him. As soon as he’s done, George opens his mouth, and Fred thrusts his tongue right into it, tasting all the remnants. George can taste the ice cream just as much, and he hates to tug Fred away, but the cold ice cream is slipping down to his boxers, and Fred really should clean that up.

There’s a mischievous glint in Fred’s eyes as he kisses his way back down George’s body, and he stops to leisurely suck on one of George’s nipples. George takes a shuddering breath and hisses warningly, “Fred...”

Smirking around his mouthful, Fred slips off and continues licking his way down, leaving a thin trail of saliva everywhere. Then he starts to eat the mess out of George’s lap, tugging at George’s boxers to pull them away where the ice cream trickled underneath. It’s gotten into the orange curls under his waistband, and Fred eats it all. They should definitely have more ice cream later. George desperately wants to return the favour.

When Fred starts to tug George’s boxers down his thighs, he pushes Fred away to do it himself, falling over in the mattress. He’s sticky and glistening, but they both are—it’s too hot not to sweat. He tugs the boxers off his legs and throws them off the bed, gesturing for Fred to come closer. Fred crawls towards him like a cat, and when he gets down on his elbows, George mumbles, “No, come here, give me yours...”

“I’m not going to taste like ice cream,” Fred chuckles, turning around in the bed. He sheds his own boxers easily, and then he scoots up to George’s body, head to foot. George grabs his hips and pulls them right up—Fred’s cock is already semi-hard, and George’s cock is rock solid in front of Fred’s face.

“Don’t be stupid,” George purrs. “You know I love the way you taste.” And he kisses the veiled head of his brother’s cock for emphasis. Fred resumes lapping at the base of his, sucking up all the cream left. Before he gets too lost in his own pleasure, George opens his mouth and dives right onto Fred’s cock, bobbing up and down immediately. Fred moans and rewards him with a warm kiss to his balls; George moans back appreciatively. Fred starts sucking on his sac and George sucks until Fred is hard, and then George reaches out to hold Fred’s hips—Fred has a tendency to buck into him. 

“We’re not the brightest people, are we?” Fred sighs into George’s crotch, and George shivers as that warm breath ghosts over his wet skin. He pulls off of Fred’s cock with a wet pop so he can answer.

“I don’t know what you mean. This is the correct way to eat ice cream—everyone else is just doing it wrong.”

Fred laughs and kisses George’s shaft: the usual reward for being funny. George lovingly strokes Fred’s cock with one hand while they talk. Fred purrs, “I meant getting all hot and bothered in weather like this. You’re going to catch me on fire, brother dearest.”

“You’re already too hot to handle,” George quips, because bad jokes like that never go out of style. It’s true; Fred can set him boiling in the dead of winter, and that doesn’t get any easier in the summer. Fred finally slips his lips around George’s cock, and George has to consciously stop his trembling thighs from wrapping around Fred’s head.

Instead, he moves his hand down to Fred’s balls and returns the favour. Fred’s nice and large in his mouth, thick and long, warm and pulsing. George pulls back on and off, sucking hard and moaning every time Fred sucks him. It starts off a butterfly effect, a chain reaction that has them groaning one after the other, humming around their mouthfuls and sending wonderful vibrations up both their spines. George knows exactly what Fred’s feeling, because it’s the same as him, it always is. They’re alike down to the last freckle, and pleasure’s the same. George always comes twice as hard when he knows Fred’s right behind him; Fred’s pleasure is worth more than his own.

Fred is worth everything, _is_ everything: he’s George’s whole world. They haven’t been able to chastely eat ice cream since puberty, or any food, really, that can be dripped along each other and licked off. George knows the taste and feel of every centimeter of Fred’s body, from the tang of his asshole to the smooth skin behind his ear. Fred’s cock is George’s favourite part, though, and he knows that the feeling’s mutual; Fred is tugging at and squeezing and sucking his cock like it’s going out of style. Fred eats cock like no one else. He plays George’s body like a fiddle, and knowing it’s his own brother around him only makes everything so much hotter. His brother, his twin, his _other._ They haven’t been apart since they were born, and they’re not about to start any time soon. Fred _belongs_ around his cock, just like he belongs around Fred’s. They fit right together, damp chests sliding against one another, fingers clutching at each other’s asses and balls, lips stretched and swollen. Even in the raging fire of the air, this is George’s idea of heaven.

It doesn’t take long before it’s too much. George doesn’t pull off to warn Fred; he doesn’t have to. Fred will know. Fred’s own balls tighten in George’s hands, and George goes even faster, up and down, sucking and licking, burying his head in Fred’s pubic hair and then sliding down to the head and pressing his tongue into the hole. He grinds his face into Fred’s crotch when Fred’s cock starts to spasms inside his mouth, and George follows suit, shooting his load right down Fred’s tight throat. Fred fills him up with cum, slick and hot against his tongue, dripping down. George sucks and sucks, not wanting to miss a drop, and Fred sucks him back, and George is a moaning, writhing mess, thighs shifting in the sheets and lashes fluttering. He doesn’t stop sucking until he knows Fred is completely spent, and his own cock is limp between his brother’s lips.

They both stay on for a moment, savouring the feeling. Then they push off and roll onto their backs, slipping out. Fred’s the one with his head closest to the pillows, so George sits up to crawl over to him, panting up a storm. It’s too hot to breathe. Fred holds out his arms, and George collapses into them. He pulls up a pillow and snuggles into Fred’s warm, sweaty, naked body, the exact same as his own. Fred smells fantastic. They fit together like they were made to be together, and their legs intertwine automatically, arms wrapping tightly around each other. George kisses Fred hard, but closed mouthed, because he’s too tired for anything else. The heat’s taken everything out of him. Or maybe that was the orgasm.

“Sleep ‘til dinner?” Fred suggests. It’s the middle of the day, and the sun’s streaming in through the window, but really, rules and conventions have never meant much to them. Maybe it’ll be cooler at night, and they can work on fixing the shop then.

George lets out a long breath, yawning, “I suppose. We’ll eat ice cream?”

“Dump the bucket on me, baby,” Fred laughs. He pecks George on the cheek, making George chuckle. Any meal’s better with Fred for a plate.

Everything’s just better with Fred. George instinctively rolls over and almost reaches for the blankets, because that’s what they do when they sleep through the day, but he catches himself just in time. Blankets right now would be deadly. Before he can roll back over, Fred’s shuffled up to spoon him, and George holds onto the arm that drapes over his stomach. He can feel Fred’s breath on the back of his neck and against his ear, and that’s a comforting feeling.

Before he lets the heat and the afterglow get to his rapidly thickening head, George breathes, “I love you, darling.”

He can practically feel Fred’s smile. “’Love you too, honey.”

It’d be easier to sleep not pressed close, not sharing body heat. But George doesn’t care. He holds Fred close, and he drifts off to that warmth, glowing all over.


End file.
